


Truce

by thedevilchicken



Series: Truce [1]
Category: Batman Begins (2005)
Genre: M/M, Post-Movie(s), Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-01
Updated: 2005-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Batman and the Scarecrow have called a truce. And apparently, they're making the most of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truce

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Livejournal on 1 July 2005. Set after the first movie with nary a hint of any of the others (as they hadn't even started filming at the time!).

Bruce is starting to believe there's something to be said for truces. 

With Catwoman they're always somewhat infuriating. She has a habit of making the most simple of plans entirely too complicated with her bizarre urge to rip off his mask at any given moment - so far she hasn't actually succeeded but it's not for lack of trying - and her rampant kleptomania is usually just a tiny bit more hindrance than help. And sure, she's a good kisser, but he'd rather not be torn to shreds by overly-sharp kitty-claws just because she's got a little enthusiastic; strangely enough, that's not his idea of fun. And besides, he'd never get her out of that costume anyway - as far as he can tell, it's practically sewn on. 

The Scarecrow, though - Bruce has to admit that there's something to be said for _this_ truce. He was apprehensive at first because he knows the scary little sociopath's not exactly playing with a full deck these days, but it's been going fairly well. Yes, so perhaps the good doctor's tried to kill and/or maim him three times already (and that's just today), but that was pretty much a given from the moment all this started - apparently Jonathan Crane doesn't _quite_ understand the concept of "truce" because Bruce is fairly sure that trying to poison his food or stab him with a pitchfork... not the _most_ friendly of gestures by anyone's estimation. Still, he does appreciate the fact that he makes his attempts with a cheerful smile and perhaps he does have some notion of "truce" after all because so far, at least, he hasn't tried to gas him and tie him up. He's noticed over the years that Crane has a weird little penchant for bondage. 

It's odd, perhaps, that he finds a truce with the Scarecrow somewhat rewarding. It's odd that he's learning to take daily attempts on his life in his stride but they _are_ somewhat half-hearted by the Scarecrow's usually high standards - it's like he's going through the motions in a strange sort of way, like he doesn't really care if he actually scares the big bat-bully or not. Bruce'll look at him as he slaps a knife from his hand or as he attempts to serve him noxious, smouldering drinks that might just as well have a little skull and crossbones etched onto the glass and Jonathan just smiles and shrugs and says he won't do it again while his eyes say "not until next time, at least." It's all getting to be quite amusing, in a perverse sort of way. 

And it's never a bad thing to have a master of fear - even a self-professed, highly psychotic one - essentially on your side. Especially when the Joker's turned up for roughly the fifty-first time to harass you in a way that's really starting to piss you off. Nor does it hurt that Jonathan Crane's apparently so whacked in the head that you can install him in a room in Wayne Manor then abandon cape and cowl completely and he'll still not notice that you're Batman. The upside to his interesting psychosis is that he honestly seems to believe that Batman has no human alter-ego, though Bruce wonders how he'd react if he took off the mask right in front of him. Needless to say, he hasn't tried it. And apparently he doesn't hate Bruce Wayne even half as much as he hates the Bat. In fact, he's been a model house guest. 

Except, of course, that he seems to prefer Bruce's bed to his own, but even that's not exactly a deal-breaker. It's been a while since he's had company that didn't have more of a taste for his money than for him, after all, even if this sort of company wants to kill him in costume and kiss him out of it. For anyone who hasn't lived a double life for the past oh, five, six years, that could be somewhat confusing. For Bruce, it sort of makes sense. 

He should be tense. He really _should_ be, because they've got a fairly elaborate plan that's set to go off tonight and there's about fifty things that could go wrong and probably all at the same time if he knows his luck, but he's not tense. This could be something to do with the fact that he's just got out of bed and isn't quite awake enough yet to be tense, but it might also be, he thinks - and this is nowhere near as disturbing to him as it really should be - that some of Jonathan's odd mentality's rubbing off on him. He's differentiating between Bruce and the Bat in ways that he probably shouldn't, these days, at least if he wants to maintain a comfortable distance from the wards at Arkham. But he just shrugs and turns on the shower. He waits for the water to warm, tests it with one palm, and steps inside. 

There are days that he can't believe his luck as he steps in under the spray, and this is one of them; he spent so many years moving from country to country, considerably less than the billionaire, not even sure where he'd find his next meal let alone his next shower. He closes his eyes as he tilts back his head, letting the water run down over his face as he doesn't think about Chinese prisons and days spent covered in mud and blood and God only knows what else that's almost enough to turn his stomach. He actually had the master bathroom redesigned specifically to accommodate a shower roughly big enough for half of Gotham's beefy NFL franchise beside himself, not that he's tried it or is going to, and it's one deviation from the plan that he doesn't regret... not as he takes a deep breath, feeling the almost-hot water against his mouth, droplets against his tongue. Sometimes it's not too bad to be a spoiled billionaire. 

Apparently his body wash was imported from France. It's not exactly something he cares about though he was almost embarrassed when he found out how much it cost and realised that once upon a time he could've lived for a month on that amount of cash. Still, he's decided that he should have _some_ luxury in his life - he can't go around flogging himself with pain sticks all the damn time or it'll just look suspicious, though he should say that he did use that same excuse when he bought his third Ferrari. So he smoothes his body wash over his skin, rubs it over his shoulders. He squeezes out a little more and runs it down his broad back, his unsurprisingly firm ass, stoops just a little and follows the line down, over his thighs. He's spoiling himself but he couldn't care less to be frank, he'll allow himself a little indulgence now and again. Sometimes he'll even admit he deserves it. 

A cough. Behind him. He turns and he knows what he's going to see before he sees it; Jonathan's standing in the doorway, arms folded over his bare chest. He can see the amused quirk to his lips even through the door of the rather expansive shower stall. He pushes it open, doesn't care if he's getting water all over the bathroom floor even if he's usually uncommonly anal about these things. He sets his hands on his slippery hips and quirks a brow. 

"So you like to watch?"

Jonathan shrugs slightly. "I don't know, Bruce. Why don't I try it and find out?" And he just stands there, leaning against the door frame with that same smug look on his face. 

For a moment, Bruce isn't sure if he's serious. Then he realises he is and for a moment he's not sure what to do - either that or he's not sure if he wants to do what Jonathan wants him to do, except that he clearly _does_ want to do it. He raises one hand, slicks back his hair and pauses that way. He thinks about it for a second then decides he's thinking too much and flexes that raised arm, just a little, just enough for Jonathan to appreciate the definition in the muscle that he's worked so damn hard to perfect, even if he's somewhat covered in bruises that Jonathan conveniently seems not to see. Still, he doesn't exactly look impressed. 

So he moves. Just slightly, back under the spray of the shower until it's running down his back, over his arms, down his chest. He follows it with that raised hand, down the back of his neck, tilting his head and letting his fingers run around and down over his throat. His palm sweeps across his collarbone and then down and he watches Jonathan watching him. Still nothing. He reaches for the soap this time. 

He feels like an idiot as he runs it over his chest for a start, not watching him anymore but that's a calculated move because he's not quite embarrassed. He runs it over one nipple, follows it with his free hand, lets his thumb play over his skin for a moment as his head drops back. It feels good even if he does still feel vaguely ridiculous and he's not too sure how far he's willing to go with this. He's got no real reason to want to push Jonathan, no particular reason why he'd want to do what he's basically asked him to since he's fairly sure that he's doing this of his own free will and that he's not being manipulated the way Jonathan would probably like to manipulate him, given the chance. He takes a quick glance at him; Jonathan's big blue eyes are fixed on his hand. And suddenly he can't think of a good reason to stop. 

His hand moves down, trailing the soap over his chest and down to his stomach; he slips his free hand after, palm gliding over his hip and over his abs that he tenses under it, fingertips playing over the muscles that are slippery from the soap and the spray. And Jonathan's watching him, watching as his hand dips lower, follows the trail down from his navel to the base of his cock. This is when Bruce would blush if it weren't for the fact that he's essentially shameless and he'd like to think that Jonathan Crane's opinion just doesn't matter to him all that much, even if the situation plainly says that it does. His fingers curl around the base and he's watching as Jonathan watches; his expression's still curiously nonchalant but there's just the faintest hint of a blush staining his high cheekbones. He'll crack. It won't take long. 

So he puts down the soap with one hand and he pauses just slightly with the other curled around himself. It's an odd sort of moment because he's not used to being watched but at the same time he can't say it feels bad. It's the same sort of feeling he's been getting for over a week now, every time he's lying in bed and feels Jonathan's weight press against him, because he doesn't tell him to leave even if he thinks that maybe he should. He lets his smooth, steely fingers trace the line of his thigh as he looks at him, blue eyes reduced to little more than a strange silver shine in the relative darkness. He lets himself be coaxed on top to lie there between Jonathan's parted thighs, and he'll sink into him, let himself be swallowed whole though it's wrong and wrong isn't supposed to feel so damn good. Maybe it's just the perverse satisfaction of knowing that he'll let Bruce take him but Batman MUST DIE. He finds it entirely too amusing, and worries for his sense of humour. Apparently even the Scarecrow needs company. 

He gives himself a stroke, long, lingering, eyes fixed on the psychopath across the room who's basically just wandered in from Bruce's bed. He doesn't know what makes him think he can handle him if he's never actually _caught_ him, but that doesn't seem to matter. Even the death threats are playful these days and he's obviously living in a twisted world when he finds it acceptable that he tests his food before eating, or snatching a baseball bat from an ally's hands before actually doing any work makes perfect sense. 

Then Jonathan moves, sucks briefly as his lower lip, rakes his teeth over it, leaves it just a little bit redder before he moves. He tilts his head just ever so slightly and he pushes himself away from the door, takes a step forward and then another and he doesn't look even remotely cautious; it's like he has absolutely no qualms about what he's doing, about stepping forward and slipping off the robe that's obviously Bruce's since it's at least three sizes too big. It pools at his feet and then he stops like he's had a little epiphany; he takes off his glasses, blinks almost too slowly and puts them on the nearest cabinet. He pushes back his hair and he looks almost coy as he does so, but Bruce isn't buying it - he raises his eyebrows and Jonathan shrugs and it's not quite funny somehow, obviously, because Bruce isn't laughing. 

"Do it again," Jonathan says, and he licks his lower lip.

Bruce doesn't ask what he means, isn't in the mood to play innocent; he gives himself another long, slow stroke and Jonathan moves forward again, feet splashing in the water that's gathered on the tiled floor. He frowns for a moment, glancing at the water that's probably cold by now and then he steps in and he stops just inches from him, letting what little spray isn't blocked by Bruce's rather impressive frame cling to his hair and run down from his shoulders. 

"So, do you like to watch?"

Jonathan smiles almost smugly. "Why don't you turn around and we'll find out."

And he does it. He's not sure why, almost expects the hard steel of a knife at his throat or something to that effect, but it doesn't come. All he feels is Jonathan's slim, wet body pressing up against his back and one hand coming to rest at his hip. It snakes around his waist, palm flat against his flat stomach, and it follows the path that the water takes to circle his cock as Jonathan's head comes to rest against his shoulder. 

"I think I prefer the hands-on approach," he says then, lips moving against his neck. Bruce shakes his head just slightly, and smiles. He doesn't say a word.

There's something to be said for truces, he thinks as Jonathan strokes him slowly. And he hopes this one's going to last.


End file.
